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by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Post-Book(s), Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

She’s come to him before dressed in rags, face smudged, hair in tangles. But before it has always been a game, and no level of disguise could ever truly hide her beauty. He often wondered how she went unnoticed when dressed as a servant girl. Her back was never bent, her chin never dropped in the way in should. She was always a lioness.

It had all been playacting. Now, though…Jaime can’t quite process it. He almost didn’t recognize his sister when she entered his tent. Her dress is shambles, her cheeks hollow, her eyes empty. All of his anger, all of his pent up rage that had festered in the years since they had last seen each other—all of it had vanished in an instant. _Weak_ , he tells himself, but the sight of his sister, now, chills him. He wants to reach out and brush the dirt off her face, untangle the knots from her hair. He wants to touch her, his hand aches for it.

He smirks. Everything he had planned to say, should they chance to meet again, melts away into nothing. He can’t help himself, he never could.

“Bastard,” she snarls, teeth barred. He says nothing. The word seems to fit. There is even an odd comfort to the sound, from her voice.

She’s on him in an instant, broken nails tearing at him, pitiful noises escaping her throat. He still says nothing, though it bothers him how easy it is to pin her to the ground one-handed, to claim her mouth. She bites at his lips, drawing blood, inflaming him. He devours her, tasting home, and tries to push aside the part of him that longs for a more bloodied, more even, fight.

She’s weak, broken, as broken as he is, but she’s with him. His body engulfs her, _his_. With his good hand he easily pushes away her rags, and he has no time to think about what all has been lost between them.

He takes her on the floor, rough and filthy, and she curses and rips into him and clutches him close. Cersei tells him he’s horrible, tells him never to leave her again, tells him he’s back where he belongs. He wonders what they ever gained from being apart. He’s spent the years since trying to live up to the ideal of his boyhood, or something like it, but it never felt as right as this act, now, does.

He spends himself quickly, not able to control it, and collapses on top of her. He exhales, she inhales, and their hearts beat in sync. He stays inside ever after he softens, buries his face in her matted hair. A thousand questions rise and die on his tongue—what brought her here, what happened, why why why—but he raises none of them. He’s suddenly struck by how tired he is, of everything.

“Never leave,” she says in his ear, fingers deep in his back. It has the tinge of a threat, and he knows he shouldn’t give into it, but he will.

He feels Cersei’s bones underneath—she’s so _thin_ , he misses the curves of her hips and breasts, misses gripping and cupping with both of his hands—and pictures them both, dead and rotting, corpses of body as well as of mind.

He says nothing; he doubts she expected him to. He moves off her just enough to lay beside, their limbs heavy and entangled. He closes his eyes and focuses on the feel of her bones, of the soft dirt surrounding them, and thinks, _yes, never_.


End file.
